When there's no more room in hell
by hobgoblin123
Summary: When an unknown plague ravages the northern lands, Gerald and Damien have to risk everything for the sake of mankind once again. Slash eventually.
**When there's no more room in hell**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.

Warnings: I haven't planned anything beyond the 2nd chapter so far, but very likely you'll have to deal with a fair amount of gore. And slash, but I suppose nobody reading this (well, maybe except poor Herdcat ;-)) will mind at all...

A/N: Don't ask me why somebody as scared of zombies as I am gets into her head to write a story about those nasties, lol. I hope I won't have nightmares about it. However, due to a lamentable lack of spare time I couldn't go over this chapter again and again as I'm wont to, and you might have to wait quite a long time for the next one. Sorry!

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Come on, lovely, have a sweet." When the boy shrank away from him as if he were the Unnamed himself and buried his face against his mother's shoulder, Damien Kilcannon Vryce stifled a sigh. He had seen that expression in too many children's eyes before, an empty, hopeless stare into the abyss that would have been blood-curdling to witness on anyone, not to mention on a preschooler.

Only the Lord in His wisdom knew what was going on in the north. The first fugitives from Seth and Kale had arrived in Jaggonath this very morning, and already rumours were spreading like wildfire, hinting at a previously unheard of plague turning decent folks into mindless monsters.

The former priest wasn't sure what to make of it. Sick people usually weren't wandering around, attacking everybody within reach, but he'd learned long ago that living on Erna, one was well advised to be prepared for the worst. The mutated life forms inhabiting the Forest were supposed to have perished along with their home, the unique ecosystem Gerald Tarrant had so painstakingly created, and sure enough none of them had been seen ever again after the last fires had died down five and a half years ago. But as it couldn't be ruled out that a particularly sinister virus had crept out of the heart of the Prince of Jahanna's former lair at long last and had been carried across the Serpent by the fortune hunters digging through the rubble that had once been the Hunter's proud keep, he had imposed a quarantine, nonetheless.

"Doctor Vryce?"

Whirling around, his gaze fell on one of the trainee nurses who barely seemed old enough to be out of school herself, and he suddenly felt the weight of his years. "Yeah?"

"Mer Zahriel wants to see you in his office. He said it's urgent."

Damien bit back a curse. As far as pencil pushers went, Rain Zahriel wasn't a bad customer. Unlike other hospital administrators, he was usually willing to lend an ear to the staff of the 'Neocount of Merentha' in case a problem raised its ugly head, but his primary goal was keeping them out of the red, even if that meant making some very unpopular decisions. Only last month, he had announced heavy cuts to the medical research budget, a course of action which had almost led to open rebellion among his employees. The situation was still tense, and the warrior knight wasn't in the least keen on hearing the same old silly arguments all over again. People were dying every day of sicknesses he could have cured in a trice six years ago, and it was their goddamn duty to mankind to reinvent the drugs, vaccines and wondrous surgery techniques of their forefathers from Earth in order to make up for the loss of the fae, no matter how high the cost.

Steeling himself for just another fruitless debate, he headed for the door, but was stopped dead in his tracks by a slender hand on his arm. "There's something you should know, Healer Vryce," the young mother whispered, clutching her son to her breast like a lifeline to sanity. "My husband told me to keep my mouth shut by all means. Thought that you'd consider us superstitious country bumpkins, ripe for the madhouse. But you're a good man, kind and caring. Your eyes show that you've seen a lot of things in your life. Terrible things. Maybe you'll understand."

"What is it you want to tell me, child?" Damien asked gently, utterly oblivious to the fact that he was falling back on the jargon of his former profession. "I came across some queer stuff in the past indeed, and I promise not to laugh at you."

The green eyes gazing up to him were wide, brimming with an emotion he had no difficulties in identifying: stark, unadulterated terror. "They say it's a virus, whatever that may be, but they're wrong. It's the dead. Hell doesn't want them anymore, and so they walk again, greedy for the flesh of the living."

Registering the tremor of fear in her voice, Vryce managed to keep his word, if only just. "Please don't get me wrong, Mes Monaghan. I don't take you for a 'country bumpkin', and I admit that there's something very creepy about all this, but a corpse can't get up and walk about. It's outright impossible," he objected. "If our problems aren't caused by a nasty bug driving people crazy, we're faced with a new kind of demonlings. The fae shouldn't react to human brain activity any longer, but you can never know."

The woman shook her head. "They aren't demonlings. My own father succumbed to a bite wound inflicted on him by one of those things stumbling into our village. I myself saw him sitting up on his death bed two hours later. He used to be a caring dad and a doting grandfather, but when he opened his eyes again, all humanity had been stripped away from him. He didn't even recognize me, and if Pete hadn't intervened..." She closed her eyes and shuddered violently. "Believe me or not, Healer Vryce, but the dead are preying on the living. Confining us to this ward won't keep them away. We're doomed, every single one of us."

Very much against his will, Damien felt a cold shiver running down his spine. "Although I don't have a clue about what has become of your real father, I still believe that you were taken in by one of the faeborn assuming his guise. But if the creature attacking you truly was him in person, he could have very well just have woken up from a state of suspended animation, disorientated and confused. You'd better keep in mind that distinguishing between a deep coma and real death is rather difficult for a layperson. But whatever happened, you're safe now. Lunch is on the way, and then you should rest until I've got time for you again. It won't be long."

Taking a seat at his superior's desk at long last, he was still so deeply lost in thought that he very nearly failed to return the man's greeting. The dead couldn't rise. Well, Gerald had. Twice, if he wasn't completely mistaken, but the Hunter had always been an exception of the rule. As the Mother of the Iezu in all probability hadn't indulged in a mass resurrection and it could be likewise ruled out that dozens of people had bartered their humanity to the Unnamed like a certain adept, there had to be a different explanation for the incidents.

"It's only past two o'clock, and I've already heard a couple of weird tales today," Zahriel's deep, rumbling voice so strangely at odds with his lean frame snapped him out of his musings. "It's no secret that we sometimes disagree on administrative matters, but I've always valued your professional opinion. So what do you think about our new enemy? Could it be a retrovirus?"

Running purely on instinct, the warrior knight decided to keep quiet about what he'd just been told. "How the heck should I know? I'm not a vulking oracle, Rain. It goes without saying that certain diseases can drive you insane, for example schizophrenia, other psychotic disorders or a malignant brain tumour. But not for the life of me I can imagine one of them occurring in a great number. It simply doesn't make any sense. So yes, it could be a so far unknown virus if we rule out that those poor souls seeking shelter in town are merely the victims of a mass hallucination. I, for my part, fear that they've got a damn good reason for panicking."

"I thought as much and acted accordingly. One of our leading capacities in virology is already on his way here, along with several of his most competent assistants. They're scheduled to swell the ranks of our own lab rats, running tests and trying to develop a vaccine against whatever it is. God knows that we'll need every helping hand we can possibly get if the sickness starts to spread. But I damn well need a trustworthy man in the field. Professor Hawthorne has agreed on travelling to Kale in order to get a picture of the situation, and I'd like you to accompany him.

"You can't be serious," Vryce spluttered, completely thrown off his guard. "It stands to reason that you want a first hand report, but inspecting a crisis area with a doddery egghead in tow isn't my idea of a nice trip into the countryside. I'm not in the mood for acting the nursemaid, dammit. The bloke very likely will fall off his unhorse at the very first opportunity, breaking a leg or worse."

Zahriel chuckled softly. "Simmer down, Damien. I met the guy at a reception last year, and trust me that being in his mid-twenties, he's far from 'doddery'. In fact, he's such an eye candy that I couldn't resist flirting with him. But he sent me packing, albeit in a very polite manner."

"It's good to know that I wasn't rude. My social graces are a little bit rusty, I'm afraid."

The former priest had heard that slightly husky light baritone only once before, but he would have recognized it among thousands. In a blink he was out of his chair and on his feet, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his side. "You," he rasped, his brows knitted into a tight frown. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Why, I thought it would be obvious. Administrator Zahriel was so kind as to send me a message. What's wrong with you, Vryce? Usually, you aren't that slow on the uptake."

Incensed by the haughty condescension dripping from each and every syllable, Damien started to count from ten backwards, but it didn't help much. Only when the joy about Tarrant's survival had abated and he had been clear-headed enough again to think things through, he had realized how his ally against all odds had used him once again, sending him away under a pretext and thus condemning him to weeks and weeks of mental agony unlike anything he had ever experienced before. What the adept had just said about his social graces being rusty didn't even touch it. He was nothing short of a cold-hearted bastard, an inherent character trait apparently even death and resurrection couldn't cure, manipulative, utterly ruthless and no less cruel than the half alien he had sent to Iezu hell up there on Mount Shaitan.

On some days, the bad ones when his wounded pride, let alone other sentiments he'd rather not look into too closely, raged against being dropped like a hot potato as soon as Gerald hadn't needed him any longer, he loathed the man with almost religious conviction, prayed to God that he would never set eyes on him again for as long as he lived. The son of a bitch had made his choice, and he'd be damned if he ran after him in the manner of a moonstruck teenager. At other times though, when the stars glittering in the skies high above him reminded him of a pair of dazzling silver eyes or sunlight on a dry leaf evoked memories of soft hair reflecting the golden glow of the Core, he missed Tarrant like a lost limb. He still dreamt about him at least once a week, the outgrowths of his subconscious more often than not leaving him in dire need of fresh pyjama pants, but that was something the former Hunter mustn't know. Ever.

However, here he was, neat as a pin and not an inch less attractive than on the day he had seen him last. If anything, the passing of time had only served to polish his beauty to perfection, and Damien felt a lump growing in his throat which had nothing to do with unknown viruses and walking corpses. "So you're the announced 'leading capacity in virology'," he forced out between clenched teeth. "With regard to your _history_ , I should have known all along."

The adept bowed ever so slightly, a gesture from another time, another era. "At your service, Vryce. You don't seem to be glad about our reunion, but it is to be hoped that you can let the bygones be bygones sufficiently enough to be of any service to me."

"Who do you think you are, you vulking bastard? Just in case it has escaped your notice so far, I'm the healer in charge here and not your goddamn lackey!"

"I gather you already know each other," the administrator chimed in, curiosity written all over his face. "Is there a problem?"

"You can bet your life on it! Do me a favour and send somebody else, Rain. I'm out."

Zahriel's mien darkened. "Life's not a bowl of nucherries, my friend. I'm the boss, and I'm damn sure that you're exactly the right man for the job. So kindly stop sulking and pull yourself together for God's sake, or you won't like the consequences."

"Right now, I don't give a shit for your consequences!" Damien shot back, his temper close to boiling point. "As for me, there are worse things than a disciplinary warning letter or even a dismissal with immediate effect. You can browbeat me all the way you want to, but I won't work with him. Not now, not ever. Period."

"That's the limit! If you think you can get away with such an outrageous behaviour, you're seriously mistaken. I..."

A calm, cool voice cut through the air like a finely honed blade before matters could get out of hand completely. "I'd rather you didn't get carried away, Mers. It goes without saying that Doctor Vryce is perfect for the job, or I wouldn't have requested him. He's a natural born healer and a formidable warrior, loyal, honourable and courageous to his very bones. That said, he's also the most stubborn man I've ever had the misfortune to meet. But whatever might stand between us on a purely personal level, he knows his duties to mankind. Don't you, _Damien_?"

Hearing his former companion using his given name, something that had occurred only once or twice in all the long months they'd been fighting and suffering side by side, the warrior knight's head whipped around, and he locked his gaze with Hawthorne's. There was regret in the adept's dark eyes, a trace of wariness and something he couldn't quite put a name upon, but what really gave him some food for thought was the praise Tarrant's new incarnation had heaped on him, albeit garnered with a sample of his infamous sharp tongue.

Drowning in those fathomless depths, Vryce felt the wall of ice he had built around his fallible human heart melting, and his lips curled into a hesitant smile. "I made the mistake to walk out on a friend in need once, and I don't really care to repeat the experience. So consider me hired, _Professor Hawthorne._ Can't have you rushing headlong into disaster all on your own, eh?"

Gerald said nothing, just raised an elegantly arched eyebrow in sardonic amusement, but the administrator let out a loud shout. "It's settled then," he beamed, slapping a hand on his desk. "You're leaving tomorrow, first thing in the morning. You've my permission to plunder our dispensary, Damien. Help yourself to everything you might need. Of course, all your other expenses are on me, whether it's some decent travelling gear or your provisions. And while we're at it, take the rest of the day off if you like. Arthur certainly won't mind standing in for you."

Zahriel's grin faded, and a shadow of apprehension darkened his blue eyes. "God grant that our problems will shape up as just another storm in a teacup. I don't like that talk about crazed patients burying their teeth into everybody they can get their hands on, don't like it at all. Take good care of yourself. Both of you. I might be a hell of an asshole sometimes, but I'll pray for your safe return everyday."


End file.
